


Affirmation

by nerigby96



Series: Insult to Injury [5]
Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Frottage, Guilt, Hotels, Intimacy, Kissing, Love, M/M, Neck Kissing, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: London, 1953
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Series: Insult to Injury [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1565770
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Affirmation

He’s riled up, livid. The venom keeps coming, flung from his lips like spit. Even now, reporters gone, friends gone, the only person left in the suite the one who won’t leave, can’t leave, he fumes, storms up and down the length of the living room. Who the fuck did they think they were? What the fuck gave them the right to boo and jeer and heckle? What kinda fuckin’ _cowards_ wait until the end like that? He knows he’s shouting, screaming, overreacting, but this seethes in his belly like nothing has before. He can’t think why, just knows it feels _good_ , so he lets the vitriol stream unchecked, mingling with the scotch in his gut and the smoke in his lungs, until suddenly he needs validation and turns to his partner, who says:

“I’m with you, boy.”

Dean stops. He looks at Jerry, who stands with his hands in his pockets. When their eyes meet, Dean feels the tension slip from his shoulders like an old coat.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says simply, with a little shrug, a little smile. “I’m always with you.”

That word _always_ is too much for him. Dean knows Jerry knows. But for once, instead of flinching from it, Dean feels the certainty, the immensity of it wash over him in a cool wave; it laps around his ankles and pulls him to his friend. They stand close. Jerry wraps his arms around his waist, and Dean gently holds his face to kiss his mouth, just once. He leans away to study his serene expression, to bask in the warmth that pours from every inch of him. His eyelids flutter; his gaze drifts almost sleepily; and he offers a smile so lovely that Dean has to kiss him again and again, and then tilt his head to turn it into something else, something that makes Jerry shudder against him and tighten his grip.

Their mouths part.

“Are you still mad, bubbe?” Dazed. Fingers stroking the small of his back.

He shakes his head. He’s something else now, and this new thing is so big, so clear that it eclipses everything. Silently, he leads his partner to the bedroom.

He closes the door, draws the curtains, kicks off his shoes, all before realising what’s happened to Jerry; he’s frozen, breathing in fits and starts, eyes flicking from his partner to the bed and back again. Dean goes to him, holds his arms, strokes, strokes.

“I don’t want you should be disappointed.”

Dean’s running out of words now. He wants to reassure him, but all those kind things Jerry needs are gone. Instead, he whispers, “Lie down, Jer,” a gentle instruction.

Jerry sits on the bed, shuffles back, begins to lie down just as Dean puts his knees either side of his thighs and leans down to kiss his bottom lip. Then he's on top of him, one hand braced on the mattress, the other cupping Jerry’s cheek, then the nape of his neck. Then he wants both hands on his partner, and strokes and searches, feels him clutch and harden.

Dean wants to see him.

Fumbling, failing at the buttons, unhooking one, two, struggling, pulling, little plastic _taks_ around the room, and Jerry laughing, pulling him down, and Dean yanking at the undershirt, hauling it up almost to his partner’s armpits; thick dark hair, a glint of gold, a belly shiny with sweat; and Dean leans down to kiss the tight warm skin, feels the shudder beneath his mouth, tastes salt, and for good measure runs his tongue along the groove of Jerry’s pelvis. He jerks and moans, fingers sliding into Dean’s curls, tugging gently, coaxing, asking. Dean comes back to his mouth. Jerry’s tongue flicks against his lips, and Dean doesn’t pull away; he takes it, meets it, sucks gently at it, lips curling at the sound of Jerry’s whimpers.

“Paul.” Muffled, tremulous. “Paul, I wanna – I’m gonna—”

Dean kisses his neck, nods against him, encouraging. With one hand he unbuckles, unzips, unbuttons them both, leaves them covered by their underwear, but free enough to feel each other, the hardness, the dampness, the twitching and throbbing, and as he kisses Jerry’s neck and feels nails dig into his shoulder blades, he pushes himself against his partner’s length and hears the moan, the gasp; Jerry’s hips buck and stutter; he seems to last an age, and in the middle of it, Dean grunts into his partner’s neck and finishes with an almighty shudder. 

He lies on top of him. Christ knows how long. They’re panting, sweating, hesitantly touching, giggling. Shaking. Then, finally, Dean raises himself on his palms to look down at his friend.

The kid’s face is red and wet. He sniffles, offers a watery smile. Dean feels reality settle in; the heady atmosphere turns cold and sharpens. His eyes go wide, and he runs the back of his hand over Jerry’s cheekbone.

“Oh!” Frantically wiping his face with one hand, he reaches up to touch Dean’s cheek. “No, I'm okay.” He strokes and smiles. “It’s just…” A choked laugh. “You’re so good to me, Paul.” And then a sigh, a breathy affirmation: “I love you so much.”

Dean sits back, legs tucked beneath him. He looks down at this kid, this boy, so fit to burst with love he can’t stand it. His shirt open, vest rucked up, a dark damp patch on the front of his boxers: Dean sees it all and feels his stomach twist.

_Twenty-seven_ , he tells himself. _He’s twenty-seven._ But despite the broader chest, the fuller face, those eyes belong to the sixteen-year-old boy. Wide and innocent, adoring.

Dean slides off the bed and stands on legs that shake then lock. Jerry watches him, searching his face. Dean sees the desperation build, knows he can stop it, can speak comfort; but words fail.

Jerry crosses his arms over his face and begins to weep in earnest.


End file.
